


Unexpected

by eloquated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A meta that turned into a fic, But we need more anderlock!, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: The road from meeting to domesticity is full of unexpected twists.





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marchh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchh/gifts).



> Marchh asked what my thoughts on Anderlock were... And it turns out, I had more than I thought!
> 
> aka: the meta that transformed itself into a fic.

To start at the beginning...

I don’t think that Anderson is a bad guy, I really don’t.  He’s human, he’s made some bad judgement calls, but at heart? Best intentions.  We don’t get to see much of him on-screen, unless he’s being used as Sherlock’s scratching post, but he’s not nearly as incompetent as he’s portrayed.

When we meet him, it’s pretty obvious that he and Sherlock have been trading barbs and snark for some time (and, admittedly, Sherlock is better at the getting the last word. But how many of us would do any better?  I don’t think I would!)

Anderson is one of those people that’s plagued with moments of, “I wish I’d said that!”  when he comes up with the perfect retort… five minutes too late. 

He’s also someone that was bullied in school–  smarter than average, not very sporty, science geek... Probably quite working class, and has worked his ass off to get to where he is.  His job is something he’s proud of.

Then Sherlock shows up, and he’s sort of a bully (seriously, I love the guy, but he can be a giant arse).  In 30 seconds, he’s dragged out all of Anderson’s insecurities and made him feel pretty pathetic. Probably in front of all the people that Anderson has been trying hard to impress since he started at the Met.

And Sherlock?  He doesn’t necessarily mean to be cruel.  But Anderson gets defensive– because he’d wanted to welcome the new guy, maybe be friends, and what he got was a double serving of Holmes sass.

So he snaps back.  Which becomes a competition, because both of them are trying to score shots, instead of focusing on the things they have in common.  Which, embarrassingly for them both, is rather a long list. 

Sherlock figured out pretty early that Anderson’s insecurity was an easy target, so he takes shots at his intellect, his job, and his failed marriage.

Anderson realizes that Sherlock’s social skills are his Achilles heel, so he goes for that.  

It’s just a bad situation, and they’re both old enough to know better– but they remind each other of being miserable high school students.  So they pick, and antagonize, and bring out the sulk in one another. 

There are definitely Do Not Cross lines!  But after a while, those lines get pushed back, and grow blurry.  And it gets harder to remember where they were at the start, because they’ve been changed and redrawn so many times.

The thing is, Anderson’s coworkers don’t like Sherlock, either.  And by scoring shots off him– and by just  _ disliking  _ him– Anderson feels less like the lonely geek.  He’s consciously aware that it makes him a complete jerk to side with the in-crowd, and he  _ knows _ what it’s like to be bullied… But it’s nice to feel accepted for a change.

He’s learned not to stick his neck out, and he has to work with these people, so it’s easy to justify.  After all, Sherlock isn’t there all the time… right? And it isn’t like Sherlock is secretly pining away to be friends!

Then Reichenbach.  

There’s a terrified child, and Anderson finds himself stuck with her while they’re waiting for her parents; because Sally isn’t much good with kids, and Lestrade is run off his feet busy.  So it just falls to him. (After all, they logic, he comes from a big family, he must know what to do with kids. And they aren’t  _ wrong _ .)

And there’s so much pressure to find the person that’s done it.  And Sherlock isn’t sharing his information with them… 

And it’s just so easy to believe what the facts are saying.  

Only, the facts are wrong.  They’ve been engineered that way by Moriarty.

But it doesn’t matter– even when Lestrade tells him that everyone makes mistakes, and Sally tells him that it wasn’t his fault–  because he feels like Sherlock’s death is on his hands.

And for all their antagonism, that smashes the Do No Cross line to pieces.  He can’t apologize, and he can’t forgive himself for his mistake. Sherlock is dead and gone, and there’s a shiny black stone with his name on it. There’s a funeral, and Sherlock’s parents on the front of every magazine, strained and grey, grainy because they’ve been taken with a telephoto lens.

He’d never ever considered Sherlock having parents before.

Leaving the Met only makes sense– because clearly he lacks the judgement for that job.   _ Clearly _ Sherlock was right all along.  So it’s a relief when he’s given a leave of absence.  

Stress leave, they call it.  And of course he’ll be able to come back, when things level out a bit.  Only, he knows he won’t, because nobody ever comes back from ‘Stress leave’.  Not that he’s really thinking about work, because the guilt is eating at him.

(Being dragged into the Sherlock Is Alive community feels like equal parts quicksand and life raft.  If Sherlock is alive, then maybe he can wash some of the blood off his hands. If not? Well, at least he’s going mad with company).

When Lestrade accused him of doing everything out of guilt?  He was right. Anderson knew it. But he didn’t know what to do about it.  And when it hits the news that Sherlock had been exonerated– that it was, in fact, all a lie, and Moriarty had been behind everything?  Having his guilt splashed on every paper, magazine and tv channel?

News of the week- Philip Anderson, and the biggest cock up in British history.  World’s Only Consulting Detective pushed to suicide by idiot.

Anderson made it as close as the roof of Bart’s before Lestrade stopped him.  (It was just after seeing Anderson into a cab home that Greg ran into Sherlock, returned from the dead.  Rubbish timing, and he had no idea how to tell Anderson that he’d been right. Or if it would be too much shock for him.)

And sometimes he still wonders if it wouldn’t have been better for everyone if he’d just gone through with it.  

He tries not to think about it– temptation is still there, and those thoughts have had two years (and most of his teenage angst for fertilizer) to lay down deep roots.  They’re in the bedrock now, and he doesn’t know how to get rid of them.

So, Sherlock was alive. Anderson was shuffled back to work.  And everything had returned to normal. Right?

Only, it hadn’t.

Sherlock would never admit it, but he’d been homesick for two years.  Displaced and uncomfortable, scared, and unsure if he would ever see London again.  

At first, Anderson avoiding him was something like a blessing.  After all, it was what he’d wanted before!

But it started to chafe very quickly.  The hastily avoided glances, the way Anderson would never meet his eye, and the complete lack of banter. And he missed it (even though he wouldn’t admit that, either).  Something was clearly wrong, and despite his best efforts, Sherlock couldn’t deduce what it was.

Wife?  No, divorced.  Finalized. Hadn’t worn his ring in so long that the imprint was gone.

Work?  The same as it had been.  He had never actually been as useless as Sherlock had accused him of being.  And people seemed willing to forgive his  _ abysmal _ lapse in judgement.  

Oh.  

Both of them were rather stuck at an impasse, neither entirely sure how to bridge their uncomfortable stalemate.  Or sure that the other wanted to.

And had John and Mary not decided to get married, things might have continued that way.  

No, they didn’t meet at the wedding, and have a marvelous, eye-opening time!  (That would be far too easy, and the universe is rarely so convenient!)

Sherlock had been helping John fill out his list of guests; sister, friends, distant relatives, coworkers… The usual thieves gallery of faces and names that Sherlock had heard him mention in passing.  And John had asked a perfectly innocent question: If you were to get married, who would you invite?

Sherlock didn’t know.  His parents, his brother, John.  His cousin Victor, and Aunt Rosemary.  Mrs. Hudson. Those were easy– they were family, and traditional.  Molly. Lestrade. 

The guest list was short, but ultimately simple.  The hard question? 

Who would he ever want to marry?

And John had laughed, and promised that eventually he would meet someone who could put up with him at his worst – and to pass him a pen because his had gone scratchy.

Someone who wouldn’t roll over and play dead when Sherlock was in a mood; because great geniuses need to be challenged, and Sherlock would get bored with someone who let him win.  

Someone who was smart enough to understand his references.  They didn’t have to be a scientist– but it wouldn’t hurt if they had a strong stomach, and knew their way around a microscope!

Someone who wanted to be needed…

And someone who needed Sherlock in return.

But most importantly?  Someone who didn’t try to change him.  It was a tall order, John had admitted; but he truly believed that there was someone for everyone.  Even his impossible best friend.

After all, he’d put up with him this long...

The day of the wedding was long, and crowded, and stressful.  Sherlock wasn’t sure how all the goldfish could find the energy to be around one another for such extended periods!  So he left early, and found himself walking directionlessly through London, just to clear his head.

John’s list of criteria had wedged uncomfortably in his mind.  Of all the billions of people in the world, how was it possible that you could ever find one that fit you?  That wouldn’t make you want to smother them with a pillow in their sleep, or put arsenic in their tea, just for a little peace and quiet?

And if his standards were so high… Or his tastes so rarified… Did that mean that he would spend the rest of his life alone?

Even bloody Anderson had gotten married!  Admittedly, he’d also been divorced. As had Lestrade.  Which made them both more knowledgeable on the subject that Sherlock.  But, as the latter was enjoying himself immensely at the wedding? That left Anderson with the short straw.

The last person Anderson expected on his doorstep in the middle of the night was Sherlock Holmes, in a very nice tuxedo, with a very pensive expression.  Demanding information about weddings, and love, and the legitimacy of long-term relationships.

And the last thing Sherlock expected was for the conversation to last through three cups of tea, and several cartons of very good Indian take away.  

It wasn’t how either of them had expected to spend their evening.  Or that they would still be talking when they heard Anderson’s alarm go off in the bedroom, and realized that the sun had come up-- and he had an hour to get to work.

Still, it was just a strange one-off!  

But the next double homicide had them laughing over a pithy comment that Anderson had muttered under his breath, and not expected anyone to hear.  

And Sherlock found himself lingering just a little longer after his dramatic reveals, waiting for Anderson’s reaction. For the half smile, and the look of  _ “You’re a prat, but a brilliant one,” _ that he’d grown rather fond of.

Anderson wasn’t sure when texts from Sherlock had transformed from things of dread, to something he actively enjoyed.  Or when classical music had crept into his usual listening, because Sherlock had mentioned something about Paganini or Tchaikovsky.  

When the far side of his couch had become Sherlock’s seat (and when he’d stopped thinking of the spare chair at 221B as John’s, and just started sitting in it).

It was six months before either of them apologized for being a complete arse.

A year before they mentioned the Fall.

And eighteen months before either of them realized that they’d been having dinner together every night for so long that neither of them could remember how it had started.

There were no dramatic revelations.  Just a slow ceasefire that turned into a peace.  Packing away the armory, and lowering the walls. 

People could see ( _ what a relief, Sherlock and Anderson are both doing better!) _ , but they did not observe ( _ I wonder if those two things are related?) _

They didn’t talk about the future, when Sherlock fell asleep with his head on Anderson’s shoulder.  He didn’t call him ‘Philip’. And when he met two older sisters, it was because they’d run into one another at the shop, not because he’d gone to formally introduce himself as their brother’s new partner… lover… boyfriend…

...Person.

And eventually, Sherlock did find the answer to his question.

It wasn’t about finding someone that fits the space in your life.

It was about finding someone worth making space in your life for.

  
  



End file.
